


A Collection of Terrifying Stories

by ghosstkid



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: OWOT2020, One Week of Terror, will add more relevant characters and tags as i post
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:53:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27096862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghosstkid/pseuds/ghosstkid
Summary: "Someone is screaming out there.Someone is screaming out there while they bleed out on the ice.Someone is screaming out there; run! Why didn’t you run?No, you tell yourself, no one is screaming out there.It’s just the wind....."One Week of Terror challenge! One little horror story for the week of October 19th!
Comments: 3
Kudos: 10
Collections: One Week of Terror 2020





	1. It's Just the Wind

**Author's Note:**

> Here and on my tumblr (ghosstkid) is where I'll be posting my little horror stories for RadioJamming's One Week of Terror challenge! A few of these ideas I've had for a while so I'm excited to write them!! 
> 
> Prompt one for October 19th: It's Just the Wind

Someone is screaming out there. 

Someone is screaming out there while they bleed out on the ice. 

Someone is screaming out there; run! Why didn’t you run?

No, you tell yourself, no one is screaming out there. 

It’s just the wind. 

You stuff your numb hands further inside your coat pockets and keep walking. Your ship is not far, you can see her little, hopeful lights. You will reach her soon. You pray it will be some time before you must leave her again.

You dread to leave her; you dread the next minute and what it might bring. 

A boy choking on his own blood during dinner. 

A whisper of mutiny. 

A monster’s claws slicing through cold flesh. 

You hear another scream out there in the dark. 

It’s just the wind, you whisper to yourself. 

The snow crunches under your boots. Your hands dig deeper into your pockets. You nuzzle your nose further into your scarf. Your upturned collar against your ears blinds you to what might be following you, every glance out of the corners of your eyes only met with wool. 

You dare to turn, looking back over your shoulder. 

In the distance lies the ship you just left. You assured your second that you would be fine, a walk would do you some good. 

Funny, the things we tell each other to make us feel better. Did you say it to reassure him? Or did you say it to reassure yourself? Either way, the words escaped your lips and he had let you leave, certain you would make it back alright. 

What funny little lies we tell ourselves to help us sleep at night. 

You can’t exactly remember the last time you had a proper sleep. You wonder if you ever did. 

You turn back around and keep walking. 

Keep walking. 

Keep walking; you’ll be there soon.

Keep walking; within the hour you’ll feel something like warmth in your hands again. 

Keep walking, it’s just the wind. 

You look down at the ice. You’ve gotten used to its creaks and groans, its whimpers and its screams. You imagine that even if you leave this place, you’ll still hear it, the ice scraping against the hull, crying out in agony under the pressure. 

Sometimes, you catch yourself thinking that it’s you who is the one crying out. 

No, you tell yourself. You are not screaming. You are not out there; you are here, close to your ship. 

Yet you catch yourself wondering if you truly know where you are. 

You’ve studied the maps. You’ve taken the measurements. You’ve seen worse. Of course, you know where you are, you tell yourself. Do not be silly. 

You keep walking. 

You are closer now. 

Closer, closer, ever closer. 

You can almost feel the warmth on your numb cheeks, on your numb fingertips, on your numb heart. You stare up at the masts of the frozen ship; how great she is, how strong she is. How much she has loved you; a companion to the ends of the earth. She knows all your secrets, all your pain, all your anger, all your shame. You count the number of times you have leaned against her rail like a friend carrying you home. You count how many times she has lulled you to sleep, keeping you safe through the long, dark nights as though you were her babe.

You keep your eyes on her as you walk. 

Closer, closer, ever closer. 

A scream echoes across the ice. 

You stop. 

You know you shouldn’t stop but you do. 

Your boots feel like weights of lead. You cannot move. 

You can only listen. 

Listen to that man screaming. At least, that’s what you think it is; a man. 

You listen to him scream. You listen to him wail. You listen to his agony. You listen to his death. 

You stand, frozen, and listen. 

His screams are getting closer, closer, ever closer. 

You stand, frozen, and feel his icy hands crawl over your shoulders. You feel the nails digging into your coat. These hands could drag to hell. Perhaps they already have. 

Do not turn around now, you do not need to see his face for you know every detail of it already, every sag and dark circle, every dent and scar. 

You close your eyes. 

You hear his screams in your ear. You know every detail of that voice, every biting remark and shout, every sob and whimper when you think no one will hear. 

You are the man who screams in your ear. 

Run, why didn’t you run? 

Slowly, you dare to open your eyes, dreading what you might see in front of you. 

You see the snow. You see the ice. You see your ship. You see the deep blue sky. 

You are alone; truly and utterly alone. 

Take a breath now. Calm yourself before anyone sees you. 

You take one step and then another and then another and then another. The snow crunches under your boots. You can almost feel the warmth now. 

Closer, closer, ever closer. 

You hear someone screaming out there on the ice. 

You tell yourself it’s just the wind. 


	2. Jack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For today I picked the prompt 'Monster'! 
> 
> Since the first time I watched The Terror, I've always weirdly associated Hickey with Victorian legends like Spring-Heeled Jack; a man who when you first see him is charismatic and gentlemanly but once you get closer, you see he's much more than that. I think it's mostly because of his Carnivale costume lol Anyways, I've always wanted to write a little au in which Hickey is Spring-Heeled Jack! So here it finally is!

The boy’s old, worn boots clicked on the just as worn out cobblestones. His toes felt cramped under the leather, they had always been just a little bit too small. He pulled his green coat closer around himself, his hand resting over the pocket and the papers folded up inside. He smiled as he felt the gentle weight of them. He carried them with him everywhere he went now. His heart leapt with excitement every time he thought of them there, safe in his coat pocket. He would keep them safe, he would do everything right. 

The lieutenant’s advice still rang through his head. 

“When the ship sets sail, be sure you’re aboard.” 

His friends a few hours ago had laughed when he told them about the lieutenant’s advice. Of course he should make sure he’s on the ship. Cornelius Hickey had laughed too, his cheeks warm from his drink. He would miss them. Yet despite his sadness over leaving them, his excitement was far greater. 

In a few days, he would be boarding the great ship. 

In a few days, things would be better. 

In a few days, everything would change. 

He doubted he’d be able to sleep tonight, his thoughts racing with all of the possibilities the expedition held. 

Something clattered to the cobblestones behind him. 

The boy jumped. He turned slowly, his gaze scanning the dark, wet street illuminated only by a glowing street lamp, it’s flame weak in the rain. 

“Hello?” he called out. 

No one answered him. 

The boy took a deep breath. He turned back around, taking an uneasy step. He was close to home now, only a few blocks away. He could make it just fine.

His dreamy thoughts of the expedition had slipped from his mind, stolen by a shadowy intruder. He glanced nervously up at the rooftops that surrounded him. 

Thoughts of the monster his siblings had been talking about earlier that day raced through his mind. 

Everyone had heard the stories, the rumours. 

They said this gentlemanly monster could jump clear over a garden wall, that he could jump right up to the roof of a home, laughing while he did it. They said those who encountered him were never quite the same; some were burned, some were cut, some were lashed. They said he wore a black cape and a top hat; they said he looked like a gentleman. 

They said he smiled like a friend. 

What made the young Cornelius Hickey laugh was the story that claimed blue flames would burst from the man’s mouth, like a dragon or maniacal demon from the old bedtime stories. They said he smelled of brimstone; escaped from Hell he was. The boy smiled when he heard that story; a story meant to scare children so they wouldn’t play in the streets after dark and young ladies would hurry home. 

A story meant to leave you lying awake at night, listening for the sound of someone calling out to you from the gate. 

He had always thought the story was silly whenever his siblings brought it up. 

“He’s the devil!” they would cry. “He’s come to take our souls!” 

No, the boy thought as he walked. No devil was stalking the dark, damp streets tonight. 

The boy pushed the thought of devils from his mind. He imagined that there would be more important and dangerous things to worry about in the Arctic than monsters. 

Cornelius found himself thinking of the first time he had heard about the expedition, of the quick glimpse he had gotten of the tall commander and the warm, encouraging smile on his face. How valiant he had looked in his uniform. 

Cornelius dreamed that he would be like that commander one day, valiant and strong in a shinning, crisp uniform.

The boy smiled and quickened his step down the dark, wet cobblestone road. 

He turned the corner. Illuminated by the flickering street lamps, he could see a bridge leading over the dark, murky canal. His tight boots clicked on the wet cobblestones. Rain soaked into his hair. The streetlamp flickered. Cornelius raised his gaze from his boots. 

A man stood on the bridge. 

Rain dripped off the brim of his hat and soaked into the dark wool of his cloak; it looked like it didn’t quite fit right. Must have been lost and found, Cornelius mused. 

The man suddenly looked up from the cigarette in his hands as the boy approached him. 

“Got a light?” the man asked, a friendly smile pulling at his lips. Cornelius stopped, glancing around the lonely bridge. 

“No, sir.” 

The man shrugged, tucking his cigarette neatly into his pocket. Despite not lighting it, there was still a smell of smoke in the air. Cornelius turned towards home. “I saw you earlier, didn’t I? At the tavern?” The boy glanced back at him, his brow furrowing. “You were talking about that expedition, the one heading north. Where do you end up? Once you’ve gotten through the passage that is?” 

“The Sandwich Isles, sir. Maui, I believe, is where we stop on the way home.” 

“Maui,” the man repeated. 

“Yes, sir.” 

The man smiled. The glow from the streetlamp glinted in his dark eyes. He studied the boy who glanced again in the direction of home, too uncomfortable to meet his dark gaze. 

“Fascinating,” the man breathed. 

“I should really be getting home,” Cornelius said quietly. The man gave him a casual tip of his hat. Raindrops fell from the worn brim and landed on the lapel of his ill-fitting coat. He ran his fingers over the wet brim of his hat. His nails seemed oddly long and sharp. His skin looked pale, like that of a corpse. The boy blinked. He turned away, walking quickly across the bridge. He tried not to look back at the strange man.

The streetlamps flickered. 

He reached the end of the bridge. 

A sudden force slammed against the boy’s back. 

He crashed to the cobblestones, the air knocked from his lungs. 

Cornelius gasped for air, struggling against the weight of the man who pinned him down. He clawed at the cobblestones, trying desperately to pull himself out from under him. 

How had he suddenly jumped on him? 

Did he jump across the bridge? 

A gasping scream tore itself from the boy's throat. 

No human could jump that far. 

Hands grabbed the boy, forcing him onto his stomach. The man smiled at him as though he were greeting an old friend. 

“P-Please,” the boy choked out. “I don’t have anything! Please! Please-” 

Before he could say another word, blood suddenly bubbled up in his throat. 

He gasped, looking down at the knife in his chest with shock. 

“Don’t want any blood on these,” the man said, flicking open the boy’s coat. He reached into his pocket, pulling out the papers there with a nimble and swift hand. The dying boy gasped in agony as he stared at the man, watching him unfold the papers. He tried to push his hand away, tried to stop him from pressing his palm over his mouth but it was no use. “Cornelius Hickey,” the man said as he read over the papers. “Caulker. They would have made you do the hard work. Well, we’ll see about that. Or rather, I will.” He smiled. 

A glimmer of blue sparks between his teeth made the boy’s eyes widen, the look of terror etching itself into his dying features. 

It would be that same, fiery smile that he would give the lieutenant as he handed him the papers a few days later. The spring-heeled devil took a deep, satisfied breath as he took in the bustling ship. How new and strange it all was to him. 

It was a change of everything. 

As the ship set sail, no one thought of the boy left behind, lying at the bottom of the canal.


	3. James and the Moon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For today I picked the prompt Moonlight! Honestly, I was a bit stumped for this one and I ended up writing this in a few hours hence why I'm late to post it lol I ended up really really liking this one! I hope you enjoy it! <3

James Fitzjames is dreaming. 

He dreams of falling snow. Watching the large flakes land in the palms of his gloved hands, he thinks the snow might bury him alive. Slowly, as if pushing his way through crashing waves, he takes a step forward. 

The snow under his boots is stained red. 

James stares at the blood-soaked snow. He thinks he’s going to scream. He can feel it building in his chest, a tidal wave receding from the beach before rushing back in; an unstoppable, cruel thing. 

The sound of a knock echoes through the cold air. 

James frowns as he looks up from the red snow, the golden ribbon around his hat glinting in the white light.

The knocking gets louder. 

James’s eyes blink open. 

He takes in his dark, cramped cabin. He shivers, reaching for his blanket. He can’t find it. He tries not to chatter his teeth as he presses his face against his pillow. 

The knocking at his door rings through the dark. 

“O-One moment,” James groans as he struggles to get up and out of bed. Every muscle aches and whines at him, begging him to go back to sleep. James manages to get up only to fall to the floor, the blanket tangled around his legs. He curses as he gets up; he’ll find a bruise blooming on his knee later. He reaches for the door, sliding it open. “What is...” James’s voice trails off. 

Only the cold darkness greets him. 

James glances around the dark, narrow hallway. He can hear the sounds of sleep from his neighbours, the lieutenants and other officers. James could have moved from his little cabin after what had happened a few days ago, could have finally had the room to stretch his long legs at night but the idea of sleeping in Sir John’s now empty cabin makes him feel nauseous. 

James takes one last look around before slowly sliding the door closed. Perhaps it was just in his dream. He stumbles back into his bed, wincing as he bends his bruised knee. He pulls the blankets around himself tightly. 

One more hour, that’s all he needs. All he wants. 

Sleep slowly begins to wrap her arms around him. He feels himself falling, deeper and deeper into the cool darkness. His fingers absent-mindedly curl tighter around the blanket. He can feel his dream, feel the faint coldness and the wet kiss of snowflakes on his cheeks. He can feel the snow under his boots and the ache in his chest. 

A knocking sound roughly shakes James awake once more. 

He grits his teeth as he sits up, staring at the door with a withering, furious glare. He vows to bring punishment down on whoever thought it’d be funny to play a joke on their tired captain like they were boys again. He sits in silence, waiting for the knock to come again. His hands grip the scratchy blanket. 

Sitting in the dark, he remembers the odd creaks and groans of his childhood home. William had told him it was haunted, perhaps just to scare him. He remembers lying awake at night, listening. One night, he thought he heard heavy footsteps in the hallway. 

Staring at the thin cabin door now, James waits. 

He tries to tell himself there are no ghosts here; why would anyone haunt this place? 

This ship? 

Him? 

Slowly, James lies back down. He is cold and exhausted. He has been trying to stay busy the past few days, has been trying his best to preoccupy his mind, to not think about the blood on the snow, dripping down the ice. He wonders if it was his fault, perhaps he should not have let Sir John leave the ship that day. 

Perhaps… Perhaps… Perhaps...

A knock at the door startles James, his heart jumping wildly against his aching chest. 

He sits up, staring at the door. He takes a deep, shaking breath and gets up. He reaches for the door, sliding it open. Once more, there is only darkness and the faint sound of snoring that greets him. 

“H-Hello?” he dares to whisper. 

No one answers him. 

“Just a dream…” James breathes. 

Realizing he won’t be sleeping anymore, James reaches for his heavy coat. He tugs on his boots and gently picks up his lantern. He places his hat over his sleep-mussed hair. He holds it close as he steps out into the hall. He quietly makes his way down the dimly lit hallway. He glances around, searching for someone who might have been responsible for the knocking at his door. Seeing no one, he turns to the hatch and climbs up. 

The cool, icy blue moonlight embraces him as he steps onto the frosty deck of his ship. 

His ship. 

The thought still makes him want to cry, grief bubbling up inside of him. He takes a deep breath as he looks around the cold, moonlit deck. He slowly walks to the rail, looking out at the darkness that surrounds them. 

James raises his dark gaze, looking up at the great full moon hanging over him. A small smile pulls at his pale lips. The moon has always brought him comfort. It is the same moon no matter where he goes, no matter how far, no matter how strange and new the place may be to him. The moon is always the same moon he would look up at from his bedroom window at Rose Hill, dreaming of adventure. 

His first love would always be the moon. 

The moonlight gently kisses his cold, pink cheeks. 

A gasping, agonized cry suddenly echoes across the deck. 

The smile falls from James’s face as he turns away from the railing. He raises his lantern. 

“J-James…” a pain-filled voice calls out to him. “James…” 

A pale hand, as pale as the moon, claws at the frosty wood boards. 

James watches, frozen in horror, as the crying figure hauls itself across the icy deck towards him, his heavy, frozen navy blue coat clinging to him, the buttons scraping loudly against the wood. A trail of dark blood glints sickeningly in the moonlight. James realizes that part of his leg is missing, leaving behind mangled flesh and bone. The quivering man’s eyes are wide and white, full of a kind of terror James could not find the words to describe. 

The lantern falls from his hand, crashing to the deck with a bone-rattling thud. 

“James!” the ghoul wails, reaching desperately towards him. Blood oozes into the frozen wood beams. James staggers backwards. “James!” 

The tall captain’s knees give out, sending him falling to the deck, his heavy coat pooling around him. He presses his hands over his face, his eyes closing tightly. 

“No… no… no…” he gasps in horror. The scraping of the golden buttons on the frozen deck gets louder.

A cold hand reaches for him, grabbing at his coat.

"J-James..." 

James lets out a gasping cry. Tears soak into his gloves. 

“Sir!” A marine who had been on watch is suddenly at his side. “Sir?”

James dares to part his fingers, his tear-filled eyes searching the deck wildly for the bloody apparition. 

There is nothing but moonlight.

He faintly hears the marine yelling for the others on watch, faintly hears the running footsteps and the call for someone to go wake up Dr Stanley and the other officers. James holds onto the marine tightly as he helps him up. “Sir? Are you all right?” James does not answer as he stares at the spot where the ghoul had just been. 

In the glowing, white moonlight, he thinks he sees a faint trail of blood on the frost.


	4. I'm Afraid to Let You Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For today’s prompt, I of course picked ghosts! This is more angsty than scary, I might have teared up writing it. The title is inspired by the song “Plans We Made” by Son Lux.

A warm fire crackles in the hearth. Shadows dance across the floral wallpapered walls. The fire spits out the occasional spark, disrupting the silence that had otherwise only been filled with the ticking of the golden clock on the mantle. 

There are two chairs by the fireplace. 

One is worn and faded, the pillow morphed to match the man who sat in it every night. Its deep blue upholstery is simple, it needn’t be anything more. The other chair is a brilliant, deep red. It shines in the firelight. A visitor to the house, a rarer occurrence than a harvest moon, would think no one had ever sat in that chair. 

From his worn blue chair, Francis Crozier watches the flicker of the flames as they consume the logs; hungry and greedy. His book rests in his lap, open to the same page it had been opened to yesterday and the day before that. Each night since he had been rescued from the cold, merciless Arctic, he has picked up the same book, intending to finish it but he never does. Perhaps if he doesn’t finish the book, the story will never end. There will be no painful goodbyes, no bittersweet embraces, no last men standing. 

Francis drops his tired gaze to the page. He gently runs his fingers over the inky black words. The house is quiet. He barely notices the faint creak of a floorboard overhead. 

“Should really get that fixed,” James Fitzjames says from where he sits in his red chair. Francis merely shrugs. 

“I doubt it’s something that can be fixed,” Francis sighs. James stares at the fire. 

The warm, orange light glints off the golden buttons on his coat. 

“What is happening now?” James asks as he looks down at the book on Francis’s lap. 

“Oh… Still stuck,” Francis says, keeping his eyes on his book. He knows James is staring intently at him. 

“Still?” James raises an eyebrow. 

Francis says nothing. James leans back in his shining red chair. 

The gold ribbon around the hat resting in his lap is dirty and worn. 

“I am so bored lately, Francis. We should go out.” 

“It’s late, James.” 

“You used to want to go out,” James says with a sigh. “When we got back we went to all those lovely dinners and parties. How everyone wanted to see us,” James smiles. Francis grips his book tightly. He remembers those dinners, those parties. He remembers standing to the side of the room, James standing happily just behind him. 

James Ross had started across the glittering room, his smiling brightening. “You are standing here all alone! Come join us!” Francis had looked down. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see James’s boots. 

They were unpolished and streaked with dirt. 

The fire in the hearth crackles and spits. Francis raises his hand to his face, rubbing the tired skin. He can feel James’s eyes on him, burning as hot as the flames consuming the logs in the fireplace. The book resting on his lap feels heavy. His shoulders sag. 

“You haven’t been sleeping well.” It isn’t a question. James leans his elbow on the arm of his elegant red chair, resting his chin in his hand as he watches the exhausted captain. 

“No,” Francis says. “It’s hard to sleep these days.” He looks up at the creaking floorboards overhead. “The house tends to come alive at night.” Francis lowers his hand to his book. His fingers curl into a fist. His nails dig into his palm. 

He thinks of the long, cold nights that had come to pass. He thinks of the rattling door handle, the garbled laugh that had echoed down the dark hallway, the footsteps and the dark figure that would often stand at the foot of his bed. 

When the tears began to fall and a sob rattled his shoulders, he would feel the mattress shift and cold arms wrap around him. 

“Sleep now,” James would whisper. “They will not hurt you.” 

In the mornings, Francis would awaken slowly. Once he had the strength and the courage to, he would sit up and look at the neat, fully made left side of the bed. There was not a single dent in the pillow. Yet he always smoothed the blankets anyways and fluffed the pillow. 

James had never liked things to be out of place.

After getting dressed, Francis would make his way downstairs. The maid always made sure two places at the table were set out. Francis would sit down, reading the morning paper like he always did. When he looked up, James would be smiling at him from his place at the table, his chin resting in his hand. The morning sunlight oozed over his heavy coat, the navy blue wool spilling over the chair. 

There is blood in his hair. 

“Good morning, Francis,” James would say. 

“Good morning, James,” Francis would quietly respond. At first, he’d shoot a worried glance in the direction of the kitchen where he could hear the maid going about her work. Now, he’d say it without a second thought. 

After breakfast, the maid would clean one plate and put the unused one back in the cupboard. She did not question it; there were two of everything in this old, cold house. Two coats on the rack by the door, two dressers of clothes, one simple and plain for they needn’t be anything more and the other full of silk and beautiful things, untouched.

There were two pairs of boots just as there were two chairs in front of the fireplace in the living room. 

“It’s getting late,” Francis says as he closes his book. He places it on the small end table beside his chair. He gets up slowly. James watches him. The tired captain reaches for his lamp, gently picking it up. He walks to the door. 

“Goodnight, Francis,” James says, his voice barely more than a whisper. Francis stops in the doorway. Slowly, he looks back over his shoulder. 

The warm firelight reflects off the golden legs of the empty red chair. 

“Goodnight, James.”


	5. Shiver

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it's late! I had a hard time yesterday and I wish I had more time for this piece. Anyways, have a short but sweet atmospheric Pilkington! I picked the prompt Shiver! 
> 
> Also, if you enjoyed this little collection of horror stories be sure to check out my Black Window series! <3

Snow crunches under the marine’s boots as he slowly crosses the frozen deck. He shivers, a chill slipping under his collar. He tries to stamp his feet against the deck, hoping to chase away the numbness. His breath clouds around his face; wet and warm. The cold wind sinks her teeth into his cheeks. 

The ice around the ship creaks and groans like the old floorboards in the house he had grown up in. A small thing it was, barely big enough for all of them. He remembers how cold it would get in that little, old house. He’d always bug his younger siblings by rubbing his cold feet on them. 

“William!” they’d yell at him angrily. He smiled at the memory. His cold, chapped lips ached. He took a deep breath, nuzzling his chin and nose further into his scarf. He turns to the ice. 

He could swear that someone is watching him, just out of sight in the darkness. 

He stares back. 

He tries to tell himself that the shiver that runs down his back is simply from the cold.

It is his duty to stare back, he reminds himself. He’s here to protect this ship. 

He stares over the railing at the sprawling ice. The thought crosses his mind that maybe it’s the bear that the others claimed had followed them back to the ship. He had heard whispers from the other men, that it wasn’t really a bear at all. 

Then what else could it be? 

He stomps his boots against the deck as another shiver runs down his spine. His gaze drops to the deck as his shoulders tremble from the cold. He wonders if he will ever be warm again. The thought sends a pang of sadness through him that nearly knocks the air from his lungs. He tries to push it away as he looks back up at the ice. He frowns. 

Something has moved out there. 

He isn’t quite sure what as he leans against the railing, his dark gaze sweeping the ice. He thinks that maybe his eyes were playing tricks on him. He is exhausted after all. He takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself. 

The ice lets out a scream. 

Another shiver runs down his spine. 

He counts the minutes until his watch is over. 


End file.
